


It Doesn’t Have to Match

by Jaded_Girl_83



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Waverly POV, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaded_Girl_83/pseuds/Jaded_Girl_83
Summary: Waverly muses over his...interestingnew team.





	It Doesn’t Have to Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/gifts).



> A virtual chocolate fondue fountain and a whole zoo of virtual balloon animals to the incomparable- and patient!- diadema for her support and beta-ing! Babe, this one's dedicated to you since you've been waiting for it so long and love it so much! <3

Alexander Waverly had been blessed—or perhaps cursed, as the ancient Chinese saying would have it—with an interesting life. But while any such life would be guaranteed its share of ups and downs, it was rare that “interesting” coincided with a chance to safeguard the world from chaos and destruction. And that was indeed the hand that Fate had dealt him. 

Though not without considerable coaxing of the dealer on Waverly’s part. 

Through luck, skill, and sheer chicanery, he had managed to spearhead an organization that would represent and symbolize the best the world had to offer. Talented men and women protecting humanity’s best interests regardless of any country’s individual agendas. The success of this particular venture was in no small part due to the very first team assembled for such a purpose: a multinational trio of agents capable of putting aside personal and patriotic priorities to focus on the greater good of mankind… no matter how unlikely such an endeavor might have seemed at first. 

Waverly’s mouth quirked up in a bemused smile as he looked over the files spread out before him.

First, the American. The very definition of flash and bang. All carefully projected style and even more carefully concealed substance. Truth be told, he’d been the one to surprise Waverly the most. Technically speaking, of course, Napoleon Solo had been beholden to the CIA for another five years of conscripted service, but the ex-con was too shrewd an observer _not_ to have gained the measure of his superiors. He’d realized early on that they had no intention of letting him walk free and would certainly have found a way to escape his taskmasters before his “sentence” was up. Solo was fiercely independent, capable of insinuating himself into any environment, and had an uncanny knack for turning any situation to his own advantage. Eminently capable of shifting for himself, he had the least to gain from joining U.N.C.L.E. 

Or at least, that was what Waverly had thought, until he saw in the man a reluctant but insatiable hunger for this strange little family they’d constructed. It was camouflaged; more revealed in the negative space than through any tell of the eyes or body language. It showed in the way he fussed over his partners, poorly disguised as superiority. In the way he egged on Gaby and Kuryakin’s burgeoning relationship. In the defensive blankness of his expression whenever his CIA superiors showed up at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. In his tendency to insert himself into whatever his teammates were doing, regardless of whether or not he was invited… or even welcome. Even in the way he threw himself into communal celebrations. Oh yes, the Cowboy was happy here—happier, perhaps, than he’d been in years. Ironically, it would be “Solo” who would fight the hardest to keep the team together.

Then there was the Russian, with his methodical mind, Spartan soul, and romantic heart. Illya Kuryakin was a study in tragedy—a brilliant light twisted into shadows of self-loathing and rage. Waverly felt a deep gratitude—a palpable, humbling sense of _relief_ —that by recruiting this young man into U.N.C.L.E.’s care, he might strive to undo, or at least mitigate, the damage done by Kuryakin’s KGB masters. To teach the man how to weather the cruel blows of his own personal history. To allow his natural brilliance and inbred talent to be celebrated without threat. And there was much to celebrate. Kuryakin was a man of absolutely implacable devotion, and remained so despite the remorseless way the KGB had redirected that implacability towards the pursuit of their goals. But here, too, was a perfect example of the obdurate nature of the Russian’s dedication. For Kuryakin still loved his Mother Russia, still believed in the ideals of her government. But loving something and thriving there were sometimes two separate things, particularly where the KGB was concerned. 

It surprised Waverly sometimes, that Kuryakin harbored no resentment towards his handlers and trainers, despite their treatment of him. Proof, he supposed, that they had done their job too well. Waverly had to concede his Russian counterparts’ results, though he found their methods frequently distasteful and occasionally abhorrent. They had taken a talented young man and created a machine, a monster, a minion. Theirs was a triumph of emotional manipulation, for Kuryakin was wont to consider himself nothing more than those things, and deserving of nothing more than endless opportunities to prove himself so. Unused to the idea of ease, or comfort, or self-indulgence, or praise, or support, or kindness, or even pleasure, he long ago might have abandoned U.N.C.L.E. out of sheer internal conflict, if not for the anchoring influence of the third—or perhaps Waverly might say, the _first_ —member of their trio…

Little Germany. Darling Gabriella Teller. Enigmatic and adaptable and, without a doubt, the best call Waverly had ever made. He’d noted her abilities from their very first meeting, but not even he could have predicted the extent of her capabilities. She had managed to not only hold her own against two much more experienced agents, but to actually string them along without blowing the smallest iota of her cover. Despite this rather ignoble beginning, she was now the unlikely glue holding the team together, though she herself was often caught between East and West. Much like her home city, he mused. Torn between ruthless Communist practicality and appreciation for Western luxury. But no, torn was not the right word. There was no tearing in Gaby; she took both and integrated them seamlessly inside of herself. She was as at ease sailing through the most exclusive of soirees during the day as she was up to her elbows in engine grease at night. 

Solo had the greatest elasticity of mind—a mental resilience that surpassed his teammates’. And _no one_ could surpass Kuryakin in terms of sheer physical endurance and ability. But stalwart Miss Teller had utter strength of soul, the capacity to endure and conquer, to rebuild and recover, even from the ashes. The sheer power of her radiated from her petite five-foot-five frame and rendered her much more imposing partners docile and submissive. They respected her—doted on her, even—and Waverly could not count himself any different.

It was an odd, disparate, and strangely matched unit; that couldn’t be denied any more than their effectiveness could. But Waverly had long ceased to worry about it. After all, as his agents never ceased to remind one another… 

It doesn’t _have_ to match.

**Author's Note:**

> "May you live in interesting times" is an ancient Chinese curse. ( **However,** it actually seems to be an _English_ curse that from day one has been _attributed_ to the Chinese. At any rate, it seems to have no actual Chinese equivalent; the earliest known written references to the phrase as we know it are dated from the early twentieth century.)


End file.
